Rome’s Fallen Eagle (25 page)

Paetus nodded and whispered a few words to Ansigar as Thumelicus led them off at a crouch. As they came closer to the grove the mist became more translucent and Vespasian could see how the trees thinned leaving a clearing that had four ancient oaks at its heart; in the middle of these, resting on two large flattened stones, was a slab of grey granite next to which was piled a mound of wood. Above it dangled a cage, swinging gently, made of thick wicker, the exact shape of, but slightly larger than, a crucified man.

Magnus spat and clenched his right thumb in his fingers. ‘It looks like they were planning one of their wicker sacrifices that they seem to be so fond of.’

‘There’s no one in it,’ Vespasian said, edging forward, ‘I can see light coming through the gaps. Thumelicus, what do you think?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; if the Eagle’s here it’ll be close to the altar, but the lack of guards makes it seem unlikely.’ He walked out into the clearing, his men either side of him; Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus followed nervously, poking the ground with their javelins, fearful of stakes concealed in hidden pits.

A search of the altar and the surrounding area proved fruitless. They searched the wood pile and checked for crevices in the trees, all the time aware that capture could mean a ghastly fate burning in the wicker man above them.

‘It’s not here,’ Thumelicus concluded eventually, ‘we should move on to the next one about half a mile north of here.’

Vespasian signalled back to Paetus waiting on the edge of the clearing to move his men out as they began to head north.

This time they proceeded with even more caution, a turma, split up into pairs, scouting ahead with Thumelicus and his men, just visible in the ever-thinning mist. The ringing cacophony of battle had escalated but had drawn no closer as they moved onwards. The fresh scents of damp vegetation, musty leaf mulch and clean bracing air made Vespasian wish he was taking a morning stroll in the woods on his estate at Cosa, so far away from this strange land full of danger and alien practices. With a quick, silent prayer to Mars, his guardian god, he asked never to have to return to Germania Magna should he escape this time. An answer seemed to form in his heart; it was not that: all would be well; it was one word: Britannia. He shivered as he imagined the terrors that awaited the Roman legions on that fog-bound island almost completely untouched by Roman civilisation, and for the first time it occurred to him that he and the II Augusta might be a part of the invasion force.

He pushed the unsettling thought from his mind and stalked on, glad of Magnus’ and Sabinus’ comforting presence either side
of him; ahead, Thumelicus raised a hand and went down on one knee. Vespasian and his companions padded forward to join him.

‘Sacred horses,’ Thumelicus whispered.

The second clearing was larger than the first and this time had a small grove of elm trees in its midst. Surrounding these was a henge of rough wooden columns, ten feet high and a pace apart; each had a skull placed upon its top. Four tethered white horses grazed on hay spread out for them on the patchy snow around the circle, reminiscent of what they had seen on their way to meet Thumelicus; and, in an echo of that scene, three heads, one fresh and the other two decomposing, hung from the branches of the grove above a wooden altar.

After waiting for a few heartbeats it became apparent that, again, there was no one else around. The horses looked up at them curiously as they moved towards the grove and then resumed their meal, satisfied that the intruders neither posed a threat nor possessed any equine treats.

Vespasian passed between two of the wooden columns and into the grove; scattered around on the ground were more heads in various stages of decomposition. Clumps of hair tied to branches above showed where they had hung until decay had eaten away the scalp and they had fallen free. ‘Who were these men, Thumelicus?’

‘Slaves probably; or sometimes a warrior from another tribe captured in a skirmish; any man who is taken prisoner will know what he can expect.’ Thumelicus swept the dusting of snow from the altar; the wood was ingrained with dried blood.

‘Lovely,’ Magnus muttered, prodding the ground with a javelin and looking for signs of something being recently buried. ‘I suppose your gods lap it up.’

‘Our gods have kept us free so, yes, they must appreciate human sacrifice.’

‘Free to fight each other,’ Sabinus pointed out, checking the underside of the altar for anything attached beneath it.

‘That is the way of all men: your biggest enemy is closest at hand until foreign invasion makes that enemy your most valuable
ally. But come, it’s not here; there’s one more grove to try to the east, if I remember rightly.’

They made their way deeper into the forest; here the mist remained in patches, clinging to ferns and low branches. Although they were travelling away from the battle the noise of it seemed to be growing.

‘It sounds like our lads are pushing them back,’ Magnus observed after a while. ‘For once I’d say that ain’t a good thing.’

Sabinus shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it other than hurry up. I don’t fancy being caught by Gabinius with the very thing that he’s after; that would make for an interesting exchange of views.’

‘Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,’ Vespasian said as Thumelicus signalled for silence and crouched down.

‘What is it?’ Vespasian whispered, squatting down next to him.

Thumelicus cocked his ear and pointed ahead. Faintly through the mist, voices could be heard, talking quietly. ‘They’re no more than a hundred paces away, which means that they must be guarding the grove; I think we’re in luck.’

Vespasian beckoned Paetus to join him. ‘Send a man forward to find out how many there are.’

The prefect nodded and slipped back to his men; moments later a Batavian crept forward into the mist and Paetus returned.

‘They’ll be expecting an attack from either the north or west,’ Vespasian said softly, ‘so we’ll split up. You take two turmae around to the north and I’ll take the other two to the south where, hopefully, they won’t be anticipating a threat. Wait until you hear us charge and make contact, then take them in the rear.’

‘I’ll give you Ansigar’s and Kuno’s turmae.’

Vespasian nodded his thanks and then peered forward. Not long later the scout reappeared. ‘Fifty, maybe sixty,’ he said in a heavy accent.

Vespasian looked relieved. ‘Thank you, trooper.’ He turned back to Paetus. ‘Nothing we can’t manage. Get going, we’ll give you a count of five hundred to circle around them.’

‘These men will give no quarter,’ Thumelicus warned the prefect as he left. ‘They’ve sworn to protect the Eagle with their lives.’

‘If it’s there,’ Magnus pointed out.

‘Oh it’s there all right; why else would they be guarding this grove and not the other two?’

Magnus checked his sword was loose in its scabbard. ‘Fair point.’

Sabinus got to his feet. ‘Come on then, up and at them.’

The clearing came in and out of view as a light breeze got up and started playing with the mist. The Chauci warriors could be occasionally seen standing to the northeast of the grove of twenty or so trees of mixed species.

‘Donar, sharpen our swords and give us victory,’ Thumelicus mumbled, clutching a hammer amulet that hung on a leather thong around his neck. ‘With this Eagle we shall rid our Fatherland of Rome forever.’

‘And you’re welcome to it,’ Magnus added.

All along the line, men were going through their pre-combat rituals, checking weapons, tightening straps and muttering prayers to their guardian gods.

‘Right, let’s get this done,’ Vespasian said, having made another entreaty to Mars Victorious to help him control himself in the heat of the fight; he had managed it against the Chatti, he could do it again. He signalled to Ansigar to his left and Kuno on his right to move out.

Almost sixty men, in two lines, crept forward towards the edge of the clearing; ahead of them the Chauci talked amongst themselves, sharpening their swords and spear points on stones or flexing their muscles, suspecting nothing as the noise of the battle still raged.

Vespasian raised his arm, took a deep breath, looking left then right to check the decurions were watching, and then flung it forward. As one, the Batavians screamed their battle cry and then pelted out of the trees towards their enemy, shield to shield with javelins at the ready.

Taken completely by surprise the Chauci struggled to form up into two lines, their captains bellowing at them and shoving them into position as the low-trajectory javelin volley hit hard, tearing
through the gaps in the incomplete shield wall. Screams filled the clearing as a dozen and more warriors were punched off their feet with the slender, bloodied tips of javelins protruding from their backs. Vespasian watched his missile slam into the throat of a huge blond man, throwing him backwards in a spray of gore with his blood-soaked beard resting on the shaft; he charged across the clearing, whipping his sword from its scabbard.

Keeping in good formation, the two turmae hit the disorganised Germans in unison, cracking their shield bosses, with explosive force, up into faces whilst thrusting low with their long cavalry spathae at fleshy groins and bellies, harvesting the slimy grey contents within. In a couple of places a wall had been formed and these warriors fought back with the ferocity of desperate men, jabbing their long spears over the shield rims at their onrushing foe with such strength that, with the momentum of the charge, their tips cracked through the chain mail, to lodge half a thumb’s length in a few screaming Batavians’ chests; not deep enough to kill outright but painful enough to incapacitate whilst a killing blow was administered.

Vespasian pressed his left leg forward onto the back of his shield giving it further support; he rammed it against the flat wooden shield of a young warrior snarling at him with bared teeth as he slashed downwards with his long sword. Magnus, on Vespasian’s right shoulder, punched his shield up taking the blow on the iron rim with a cloud of sparks. Vespasian ducked involuntarily and in doing so saw his opponent’s left foot exposed; with a fleet, brutal motion he sent the tip of his spatha crunching through the unprotected bones and on into the earth beneath. With a high, piercing scream the young Chaucian staggered back pulling his skewered foot away; Vespasian heaved his shoulder into his shield with enough force to send his unbalanced opponent tumbling onto his back. Taking a quick pace forward, he kicked the grounded man’s shield away to reveal his groin and slid his blood-slick sword between the legs; he held his wrist firm as the German juddered violently in agony and then ground it left then right as the warrior’s shrieks intensified. With a spray of crimson he yanked his weapon back out and moved
forward on to the next man as the Batavian behind him punched his sword down into the writhing warrior’s throat, stilling his cries and severing the cord of his life.

Vespasian cracked his sword against a shield ahead as Magnus and Sabinus, one to either side, drew forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, sweating and blood-spattered, roaring their defiance with inarticulate bellows. Suddenly a shockwave rippled through the whole melee; Paetus’ turmae had struck the Germans in the rear. It was now just a matter of time. The Batavians pressed their advantage as the dwindling Chauci retaliated with ever-diminishing force until the last one slid to the churned ground with brains spilling out of what was left of his skull.

‘Halt and re-form!’ Paetus cried as the two opposing Batavian forces met either side of a ridge of mainly German dead and moaning wounded. The decurions bawled their wide-eyed, panting men back and into lines before they could do their own comrades any harm whilst under the influence of the rush of combat.

Vespasian sucked in cool air as he tried to steady his heartbeat and calm himself after the short but ferocious clash, feeling relief at having not lapsed into the mindless battle-frenzy. ‘We should get searching,’ he puffed to Thumelicus whose sword arm was streaked with blood.

The German nodded and barked at his five men to follow him as he turned towards the grove.

‘Have the men ready to move out as soon as we come back,’ Vespasian ordered Paetus as he, Sabinus and Magnus followed.

The grove consisted of about two dozen trees of such a variety of types that Vespasian realised that it must have been planted by man many years ago. He found Thumelicus by the stone altar at its dark centre between an ancient holly and a venerable yew.

‘There’s no sign of the Eagle here,’ the German said, puzzled. He kicked at the mossy, frozen ground but it was solid and showed no signs of recent disturbance.

‘What about in the surrounding trees?’ Sabinus asked.

After a futile search Thumelicus shook his head. ‘It’s not here.’

‘But you said it would be,’ Vespasian almost shouted in his frustration.

‘That doesn’t mean it has to be; perhaps they moved it deeper into their lands.’

‘Then why were they guarding this grove?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps they just wanted us to think it was here,’ Magnus suggested. ‘After all, fifty or so men aren’t going to stop determined people getting the Eagle, but it would be enough to convince people to look in the wrong place.’

Vespasian frowned. ‘So where could they have hidden it?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps we should ask one of their wounded.’

‘They won’t talk no matter what you threaten them with,’ Thumelicus stated.

‘What about the prospect of a nasty time in that wicker man back at the first clearing? That might—’

‘Of course!’ Vespasian exclaimed, turning to Magnus. ‘You’re right. They were trying to draw attention away from where they had hidden it by guarding the wrong grove. It’s in the first grove; we checked everywhere but we didn’t look inside the wicker man – gods, who’d go near such an unnerving thing? And it seemed to be empty because light was shining through it. But how come it was swinging when there was no wind? Because they had just finished hanging it up when we arrived! We must have just missed them. It’s in there.’